He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and
trunks were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their
gold-lace adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled
and damaged; the plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a
bedraggled and disreputable look; at his side he wore a long
rapier in a rusty iron sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him
at once as a ruffler of the camp. The speech of this fantastic
figure was received with an explosion of jeers and laughter. Some
cried, "'Tis another prince in disguise!" "'Ware thy tongue,
friend: belike he is dangerous!" "Marry, he looketh it--mark his
eye!" "Pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the cub!"

Instantly a hand was laid upon the Prince, under the impulse of
this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out
and the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the
flat of it. The next moment a score of voices shouted, "Kill the
dog! Kill him! Kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior,
who backed himself against a wall and began to lay about him with
his long weapon like a madman. His victims sprawled this way and
that, but the mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and
dashed itself against the champion with undiminished fury. His
moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain, when suddenly a
trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "Way for the King's
messenger!" and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the
mob, who fled out of harm's reach as fast as their legs could
carry them. The bold stranger caught up the Prince in his arms,
and was soon far away from danger and the multitude.

Return we within the Guildhall. Suddenly, high above the jubilant
roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-
note. There was instant silence--a deep hush; then a single voice
rose--that of the messenger from the palace--and began to pipe
forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing listening.

The closing words, solemnly pronounced, were--

"The King is dead!"

The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one
accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all
sank upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward
Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the
building--

"Long live the King!"

Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying
spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling
princesses beside him, a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford.
A sudden purpose dawned in his face. He said, in a low tone, at
Lord Hertford's ear--

"Answer me truly, on thy faith and honour! Uttered I here a
command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and
prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none
rise up to say me nay?"

"None, my liege, in all these realms. In thy person bides the
majesty of England. Thou art the king--thy word is law."

Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great
animation--

"Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and
never more be law of blood! Up from thy knees and away! To the
Tower, and say the King decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not
die!" {1}

The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far
and wide over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence,
another prodigious shout burst forth--

"The reign of blood is ended! Long live Edward, King of England!"

Chapter XII. The Prince and his deliverer.

As soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the
mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the
river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London
Bridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, Hendon
keeping a fast grip upon the Prince's--no, the King's--wrist. The
tremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from a
thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The tidings struck a
chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudder
through his frame.